The Angry Beaver
by bj
Summary: A bombing in Seattle has international ramifications. Features original characters.
1. It Happened in January, or So They Say

Disclaimer: I'm not smart enough to make these guys up (mostly), so I'm not stupid enough to claim I did. Please don't sue me. I get nothing out of this but my own sick pleasure.  
  
Author's Note: Despite the above disclaimer, I take all blame for the characters of Marianne Reuter, Lawson Douglas, PM Arthur Reynolds, and Governor Gordon Lum upon myself. If you don't like them, hate not Aaron Sorkin and brilliant kind, but my humble personage, who cannot hope to emulate their, well, brilliance, I guess. Enjoy.  
  
The Angry Beaver  
By BJ Garrett  
  
The newswoman turned toward the camera, smoothing platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes. She drew a shaky breath and tried not to think about what she had to report. She wore no make-up and her lightweight jacket was insufficient cover for the frigid pre-dawn of January 3rd, 2001. Normally she reported traffic for the commuter crowd tuning into the breakfast show, but today something had happened and there was no one available to run out to City Hall and do it live, cold. She wished silently for a cup of coffee and tightened her grip on the microphone as she checked over her shoulder at the scene one last time. Yellow caution tape surrounded a blackened area of sidewalk and pavement. Debris littered the ground nearby, lit sporadically in the milky dawn by the revolving red and blue lights of a police car. There were several cruisers and transport vehicles parked haphazardly in the street before Seattle City Hall, but one officer had been too shocked to switch off his lights. The wail of a siren could be heard in the far distance, rushing to some other emergency-one where there were lives to be saved, instead of just mourned.  
  
The cameraman flicked a peace sign at her and they were live. She waited for the short introduction and feeder question to filter into her ear, then began. "Yes, Joanne, a horrific explosion happened here just an hour ago, right on the steps of Seattle's City Hall. A FOLAX Utilities van was parked outside the building at five a.m., and as six FOLAX employees sat within, it exploded in a shower of flaming debris." She moved aside a little so a corner of the blackened area could be seen, then continued, "Needless to say, there were no survivors. The names of the van's occupants have not been released pending identification of the bodies and notification of their families. The cause of the explosion is not yet known, though the fire marshall did seem certain the explosion was not the result of a defect of the van, an older GMC cargo model. There was little left of the van to identify it as such, let alone as one belonging to FOLAX, but shocked City Hall employees assured the police, rescue workers, and myself that it was a FOLAX vehicle." She swallowed stiffly around a lump in her throat. "That's all I have to report right now Joanne, I'll try to have an update in half an hour. This is Angela Reid, CNBS 13 Get Up News, reporting."  
  
*  
  
Deep in the bowels of the Privy Council Office, the Communications Director toiled over a short, sweet 'screw you' for the press on the latest Native Relations disaster. Short and dark, her hair partially obscured her unlined skin, which was thanks in part to a generous glass of milk twice a day and the rest to good genes. The small round rose-tinted glasses pushed up on her nose masked her shadowed blue eyes. Most early mornings she dressed in faded jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt emblazoned with a peeling Saskatchewan University logo and partially covered by a woolly PEI-style cardigan. On the middle finger of her right hand gleamed a heavy class ring bought in 1988. On the door to her office hung a garment bag with her work-a-day outfit: conservative suit accented with a bright shirt or scarf and an optional hat and vest--all tucked safely out of sight until lunch hour.  
  
Pulling a red pencil from behind her thrice-pierced left ear, she muttered, "Who says thusly?" to herself. As she pondered this question and that of how to replace 'thusly' with something more, well, a la mode, her phone buzzed. She grunted and ignored it, scribbling out a word. It buzzed again. She wished desperately Lawson would pick it up, flicking her eyes heavenward. It buzzed once more. Rising from her chair like an inordinately-angry geyser, pulling off her glasses and flinging them on the desk, she shouted, "Lawson!" at the top of her lungs.  
  
A frenzied-looking yet serene young man walked into her office. "Yes, Marianne?" he asked, setting a to-go cappucino on her desk.  
  
"Answer the goddamn phone," she replied, a little more sedately, falling on the coffee like a vulture on fresh meat. Without a word, he hooked up the receiver.  
  
"Director Marianne Reuter's office. Lawson Douglas speaking." He paused and paled. Marianne, sucking on her coffee, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking about nothing but the warmth of caffeine and a synonym for 'thusly'. Swallowing hard, Lawson put the phone down on Marianne's desk and pushed it toward her. "It's him."  
  
Sighing, Marianne crossed her feet on her desk, blocking the phone from her view, wiggling her slippered toes. "What does he want?"  
  
Lawson picked the phone up again and moved it to beside Marianne's legs, where she could see it and it, had it eyes, could have seen her. "He sounds a little, well, angry, Marianne. I think you should talk to him. Something's happened in Seattle."  
  
Remembering dourly her oath to the Prime Minister, she swung her feet to the floor and reached for the phone. "What does Seattle have to do with us?" she asked tiredly.  
  
Eyes wide, Lawson made a 'ka-boom' sound and mimed an explosion with his hands.  
  
"No fucking way," Marianne whispered. Lawson nodded and pointed at the phone, already inching toward the door. Marianne grabbed the handpiece and put it to her ear. "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister?"  
  
She forgot all about Native Relations, synonyms, and even coffee. Her life would never be the same.  
  
*  
  
Leo was drinking a cup of coffee himself when Margaret's phone buzzed, too far away for him to hear. She answered it and stepped into his office like a frightened deer. "There's a problem, Leo," she said haltingly.  
  
"A problem with what? The justice system? Interest rates? This coffee? A problem with what?" he asked irritatedly, bending over a random paper with an embassy letterhead, trying to appear far too busy to take on another problem.  
  
His assistant shuddered. "No, sir, it's a big problem."  
  
He looked up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. "Terrible coffee isn't a big problem?"  
  
"No, sir, I mean Gordon Lum is on the phone," she insisted, wringing her thin hands.  
  
Leo blinked. "Have I met him?"  
  
"Yes, sir. He's the Governor of Washington. You should speak to him. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but he wants to talk to you," she said, flapping a hand at Leo's phone.  
  
He sighed and put his coffee down, pushing the random paper away. "This better be good."  
  
"No, sir, I think it's rather bad, actually."  
  
Picking up his phone and pushing the blinking button, Leo said, "Perfect way to start a Wednesday morning."  
  
*  
  
As he put down the phone, staring at his desk, Leo reached for something to do, to hold on to. The same random paper happened to be under his hand and he picked it up, not really seeing it even as he skimmed the short message typed on it. The words, 'regret to inform you,' caught his attention and he pulled himself to the present, to the paper in his hand.  
  
"Dear Chief of Staff McGarry," the letter ran.  
  
"As Ambassador for the Dominion of Canada to the Republic of the United States of America, I regret to inform you of my resignation. As our associations in the past have been pleasant, I assure you that my reasons for leaving the embassy are entirely personal. I am certain Prime Minister Reynolds will have no trouble appointing a replacement palatable to both President Bartlet and his administration.  
  
"May our countries continue to prosper and conduct themselves in peace towards each other.  
  
"Sincerely, Martin Belleveau, Ambassador to the United States."  
  
*  
  
"So now we have to get a new ambassador and spin a possible terrorist bombing," Marianne stated, buttoning up her suit jacket. Turning, she smoothed her shirt lapels in the mirror, eyeing herself critically. She reached up and removed two of the earrings from her left ear, leaving a small, chaste diamond. With a wiggle of her nose, she adjusted the rimless clear-lensed glasses she now wore.  
  
"Yep," Lawson replied, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Guess so." He'd been oddly silent during the hour since the Prime Minister's phone call. Marianne was beginning to worry. Normally at every turn he jumped in with a pithy observation or timely insight. Smart-ass comments about her choice of attire and noting that leather shoes would look considerably better with whatever suit she was wearing were common. Or that she needed to streak her hair--it was all the rage and would take three years off her face.  
  
Deciding to ignore his withdrawal for now, Marianne took a deep breath and grabbed her attaché case from the rack beside the door. "If I'm not back in an hour, send in a SWAT team, okay?"  
  
Where he normally would have agreed in a serious tone, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling, today he pierced her with a most uncharacteristic glare. "Look, this is a baby crisis, Marianne. It's not a joking matter."  
  
Taken aback, she stared at him for a second. Her hand found the doorknob and as she twisted it, she said flatly, "It's not a crisis at all unless you know something I don't. And why would a secretary know something the Communications Director doesn't?"  
  
Lawson shook his head and snapped his paper a couple of times. "Maybe I just take my job, and my responsibility to the country, more seriously than you do."  
  
"Last time I looked, Douglas, Seattle was in the United States, and there was still a border between here and there. Why on earth is everyone up here panicking about an explosion that happened on the other side of the continent in someone else's territory?" she demanded with exasperation.  
  
Going back to the sports section, Lawson replied, "That's just the kind of attitude that's got Alberta wanting to separate. You're late for your meeting."  
  
Marianne glanced at her watch. "I've got ten minutes."  
  
"It takes fifteen to get to the PMO, Marianne," he said, looking up to gauge her reaction. The sight that greeted him was the door swinging shut on his boss running down the hall. Aides, assistants, and minor employees on the Privy Council leaped out of her way with long-suffering, practised grace.  
  
*  
  
The Right-Honourable Arthur Reynolds, Prime Minister of the Dominion of Canada, thought himself a formidable man, and it was lucky for him that most people agreed. Unfortunately for both of them, Marianne did not. She despised his presence, and his supervisorial position above her, so for all Marianne's intents and purposes, she ignored him. For just this reason, he harboured no particular liking of her either. They had an understanding.  
  
So while there was no tension in the Prime Minister's Office as Marianne entered, six minutes late for her meeting, there was animosity-the PM noted that Marianne was late, frazzled-looking, and wearing red and blue, and Marianne noted that Arthur was wearing her least favourite tie, leather shoes, and had used the entirely wrong shade of Grecian for Men. Again.  
  
"Good afternoon, Ms. Reuter," Arthur said smoothly, standing behind his desk flanked by his three favourite lap dogs--Parsons, Minister of the Interior, Landrey, Minister of Health, and Chou, Minister of Foreign Affairs. They nodded to her as she slapped her attache on the chaise lounge to one side of the sitting area.  
  
She didn't smile at the joke. "Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister. I aplogise for being five minutes late. Please excuse me for requiring the use of one of the many lavatories in the building, sir." Her rather vocal desire for the installation of more facilities was one of their mutual sticking points. "Now, if you'll tell me the reason for all this drama over the FOLAX van?"  
  
Arthur sat, gesturing for the three ministers to join him. They arranged themselves to the right of Marianne, out of her line of vision. She just knew Parsons was making faces at her, the little rat. The Prime Minister pushed a folder towards her, trying to be official and yet mysterious. Marianne sighed inwardly, stepping forward to take the folder. She sat in a comfortable wing-backed chair to the left of the desk, so Parsons couldn't make faces at her anymore, and opened the folder on her crossed knees.  
  
The first document was the FOLAX press release, issued half an hour ago, on the explosion. Marianne skimmed it and set it on the spindly-legged mahogany table beside the chair. Next came a series of photos from the site, which Marianne did not care to glance at in the company of men who disliked her. Crying before civil enemies is not a particularly smart move for a woman in politics. The proceeding four documents were radio, television, and internet news reports of the explosion. Then came an excerpt from the transcript of that morning's White House Press Conference. Marianne grimaced in sympathy for the Press Secretary. It appeared she'd known nothing of the explosion before facing the rabid reporters. "Poor gal," she muttered, forgetting for a moment where she was. Setting the excerpt aside, she was faced with a letter of resignation from Martin Belleveau, the Canadian Ambassador to the US. She frowned and looked up.  
  
"What does Belleveau's resignation have to do with a bombing in Seattle?" she asked quizzically.  
  
Arthur tried to contain his glee. If Marianne hadn't known him better, he would have succeeded. His jowls shook minisculely with repressed laughter, his folded hands, wrinkled in all the right places for a man who'd never done a day's work in his life, clenched together on his green marbled blotter-never used, by the way-and his eyes squeezed shut, hiding the raw malicious humour in their hazel depths. "You mean you don't know?" he asked, sounding falsely concerned.  
  
On a sigh, Marianne replied dutifully, "No, Mr. Prime Minister. I don't know." No fucking way, she said silently, infusing the unspoken words with all the venom she could muster.  
  
"Martin resigned last night. I just received the call from DC that they have noted his letter. Apparently he's having family troubles, so I promised I'd appoint him to the Senate so he'll have more time for his wife and kids. I just thought of his resignation as another pin in the cushion."  
  
When she realised Arthur had nothing more than the news of Belleveau's resignation, she relaxed. "Very generous of you, sir. What cushion?"  
  
"The situtation. It's another problem in the situation," Arthur replied, sulky now that his attempt at one-upping Marianne had failed to get a rise from her.  
  
Marianne stood, slipping the folder onto the coffe table. "As far as I'm concerned, there is no situation. A bombing occurred in Seattle, which if I may remind you, sir, is an American city, and our ambassador to self-same country has resigned. I don't see the situation. I'll write and send a letter of condolence on the bombing and you can appoint a new ambassador, okay?"  
  
Arthur grew grave, and Marianne sensed it was not an act. "There's one more paper in there, Ms. Reuter. I suggest you read it."  
  
Cautious and confused, Marianne picked the folder up again and pulled the last sheet from it. It was an e-mail, from a hotmail account named flag_burners@hotmail.com, subject headed "Boom". It read:  
  
"Fascist government:   
  
"We've had enough. We're taking action. You don't care about what they've done or what they're planning to do. The blood is on your hands, you pigs.  
  
"Five a.m., Wednesday, January 3rd. Six will die for six hundred thousand.  
  
"The Front of Liberated Anglo Growers."  
  
Marianne looked up. "This is a claim. FLAG has claimed the bomb?"  
  
Arthur shrugged. "It looks like they have. I thought they were just a little marijuana-smoking bunch of anarchists living in the Okanagan, but I guess I was wrong."  
  
Shaking her head, Marianne read the e-mail again. "They could have sent it after the explosion, wanting the publicity."  
  
Even as Arthur said, "Check the date stamp," she did, and it read midnight on January 2nd, 2001.  
  
"Somebody else...the real bombers, wanting to shift the blame...."  
  
Arthur sighed. "I'm having CSIS look into it."  



	2. The Light Dawns, or A Lesson in First Im...

  
Josh uncrossed his arms. Sam crossed his legs. CJ didn't notice that her mouth was hanging open. Toby rubbed his face tiredly. Leo turned away, looking out the window behind the president.  
  
Jed Bartlet looked at each one in turn and continued. "We don't know who did this. We have to find out. The FBI is on it already, and I'm sure they're doing a great job. Sorry we couldn't inform you sooner, CJ."  
  
Shaking her head, CJ said absently, "It's alright...really..."  
  
"So we're going to ignore the fact that we don't have a Canadian ambassador right now. We're going to focus on possible terrorism. I've got researchers out digging up everything they can on FOLAX." He gave each one a last long gaze before returning to his chair. "It's not Oklahoma. We can be thankful for that. Get back to work, kids."  
  
And they attempted to do just that.  
  
*  
  
Donna stuck her head in Josh's office at noon. "I have fries," she said gently.  
  
Not lifting his head from his arms, Josh replied, "I don't want fries. Fries can't make it better."  
  
Murmuring, Donna moved around to his side and patted his head. "Fries make everything better. Just like chocolate, but not as bad for your blood sugar."  
  
He looked up, finally smelling the grease-stained paper bag in her hand. "If you say so." As he took the bag, he met her gaze and gave a small smile, making her smile.  
  
"That's better. Should I hold your calls?"  
  
He shook his head as he shoved a hand in the bag. "Naw. That'll just piss people off. Send 'em in."  
  
After one last pat, Donna started to leave, then turned around. "What exactly is the matter, by the way?"  
  
"There was a bombing in Seattle. Six people died." It made him feel hollow just to say it.  
  
Donna's face fell. "Oh my god."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
*  
  
Sam was going through a stack of files mechanically, sorting out the bad from the good, when he came across a printed e-mail. Normally, he wouldn't have noticed it, just thrown it in the recycling box with all the other office gossip, but since the meeting this morning, he'd been focussing on the oddest things. The naturalist painting of a beaver on his calendar, the small maple leaf pin in an aide's lapel, the tree that grew outside his window. Scanning the e-mail without thinking, he came to the end and looked up. On the television mounted across the room from his office door's window, the Maple Leafs were playing the Canadiens. He jumped up.  
  
"No fucking way."  
  
*  
  
"Read this, Toby, read it," Sam threw the e-mail on Toby's desk and started pacing, rubbing his hands together. "Read it!" he shouted when Toby hesitated.  
  
"That tone won't get you anywhere, mister," Toby mumbled, reaching for the paper. As he read its short message, he grew grave and very still. Sam stopped pacing and stared at him, watching the knowledge come over him.  
  
Toby stood and pulled on his suit jacket. He left without a word and Sam scrambled to follow.  
  
*  
  
Leo was almost, almost back into his work when Toby and Sam burst in, Margaret following helplessly. Leo nodded at her and she left. "What the hell is worth scaring the beejesus out of my secretary?" he demanded.  
  
"This," Toby and Sam said in unison, as Toby placed the e-mail on Leo's desk almost reverently.  
  
"Geez, I know you guys are brilliant, but you don't have to come running every time you write a..." he trailed off as he got to the body of the e-mail. "Who else has seen this?" he asked, examining it closely.  
  
Sam shrugged. "Us, whoever printed it, whoever wrote it...anybody, really. The internet is an amazing thing, Leo."  
  
"God damn the internet," he replied, standing. "Margaret!"  
  
She put her head in the door warily. "Yes, Leo?"  
  
"Get me the agents on the Seattle thing. Now."  
  
*  
  
Cradling a cup of rich black coffee, Marianne attempted to relax. She was in her office, it was one-thirty in the afternoon, and Lawson and summarily announced in a rather surly manner that he was going out for lunch. The pleather shoes she wore were killing her, and she had a monstrous headache. Reynolds had reassured her three dozen times during their meeting, which had lasted two hours, that CSIS had the capability to figure out where the hotmail account was registered and there was no need to inform the FBI quite so soon.  
  
"How can you keep evidence from them?" she had demanded, shocked to hear even Arthur suggest such a thing.  
  
He had shrugged and looked at the e-mail with loathing. "Bloody thing."  
  
"They have a right to see it! Six people died! They're terrorists, Arthur-I mean Mr. Prime Minister. We can't protect them like this." She knew, even as she leaned over the desk, attempting to meet his eyes, that she wasn't getting through.  
  
Chou spoke up, saying, "Sir, perhaps we should give CSIS a few days, and if they haven't come up with the answers we want, we'll messenger it south."  
  
Parsons and Landrey nodded heartily. Marianne fumed, stalking away from the desk, file in hand. As she grabbed her attache case and headed for the door, she shouted, "It's not right, Art! That e-mail'll bite you in the ass, and I won't be the one to stitch you up this time!"  
  
So now she was huddled under her desk with a cup of coffee, attempting to pry her shoes off with one hand while steadying the mug with the other. The door opened. Marianne froze, trying to hide from whoever it was. "Why did you unplug your phone?" Lawson asked tiredly.  
  
Marianne remained silent. Her right shoe began to pinch terribly and she bit her lip in agony. A knock sounded beside her head and she jerked her eyes in that direction. Lawson grinned at her. "Geez, Marianne. You don't look very comfortable."  
  
In her fury at being caught, Marianne tried to stand, bumping her head on the bottom of the wooden desktop and spilling the coffee down her leg. "Shit!"  
  
Lawson came around the desk and crouched beside her. "Honey, why don't you ever remember that he bought you a plexi-glass-fronted desk for just this reason?"  
  
"Fucking weasel," she muttered. "I know it's a felony, but he's a fucking weasel." She stuck out her hand for him to help her up.  
  
"It's not a felony anymore, Marianne. You wrote the proclamation," Lawson reminded her, pulling her from under the desk. "What did he do now?"  
  
Holding the leg of her pants away from the skin, she hobbled to the garment bag where her jeans were stored. "Can you go to my place and get me another suit, please?"  
  
"After the way you talked to me before?" he asked, incredulous, but mocking.  
  
As she shed her coffee-soaked pants in the corner behind her door, Marianne realised he was back to his old self. "I'm sorry, Lawson. Really. Can you go get me some clean pants?"  
  
"Nah. I think you should just lounge around in your jeans today," he replied, fiddling with a letter opener.  
  
Marianne stuck her head out from behind the door, glasses slipping down her nose, as she tugged on her zipper. "Dammit, Lawson. We've got a crisis."  
  
"I thought it was just a boom-boom on the other side of the continent, in someone else's country."  
  
Having successfully buttoned her jeans, Marianne re-emerged and stared her secretary down. "Some things have come to light, and the Prime Minister is being an asshole. A stupid one, at that."  
  
"Ahh," Lawson sighed, putting the letter opener down. "The e-mail."  
  
"You knew about the e-mail?!" she exclaimed. "For Pete's sake!"  
  
Smiling mysteriously, he said, "Secretaries can go places and see things Communications Directors can't because nobody knows them." He held out a styrofoam container. "Fettuccini? It's from Nosta's." Marianne took it gratefully. "And the White House Chief of Staff is on the phone. Line one."  
  
*  
  
While he was on hold for ten minutes, Leo had a lot of time to think. He thought about what he would say to this person he'd never met who neglected to release a potentially important document. He thought about how shocked the FBI agents had sounded when they told him the other recipient of the e-mail was the PMO complaints account.  
  
"PMO?" he'd asked.  
  
"Prime Minister's Office, Mr. McGarry," the agent had replied after a moment.  
  
"Prime Minister of what?"  
  
"Canada, sir."  
  
"Oh. Of course. It's not as though there aren't two dozen countries who call their heads of state Prime Minister."  
  
*  
  
Marianne threw the container at Lawson as she picked up the phone. "Hello, Mr. McGarry," she said pleasantly, hoping that his name wasn't McGraw, as she secretly feared. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"Hello. I don't know your name, and you can tell me that you did not receive an e-mail the White House Deputy Director of Communications did. About a bombing," he said factually.  
  
Startled by his brevity, she tried to reply. "My name is Marianne Reuter. I, well, you have an e-mail?"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Reuter. We do."  
  
She cleared her throat, struggling for time, hexing Arthur and his demon prodigy for eternity. "Mr. McGarry, I'm sorry to find that our message has not yet reached the White House," she said, insinuating that they'd sent notice of the e-mail, when really she was talking about the letter of condolences.  
  
"Ms. Reuter. Your letter expressing...'Deep sorrow for our country's loss,' did arrive. Thank you for the sentiment, but there was no mention of an e-mail. And I know you know that I know you know exactly what I'm talking about."  
  
"Of course you do, Mr. McGarry." Lawson was picking fettuccini off his suit and making faces at her. Marianne rolled her eyes desperately and mimed being hanged. "I regret that the Prime Minister neglected to allow me to inform the White House of the e-mail we both, I assume, received."  
  
Leo quickly translated her politicspeak. "Is that, in fact, the case then, Ms. Reuter?" he asked warily.  
  
"Indeed it is, Mr. McGarry. Absolutely. You would not believe the frenzy we've all been in." She wiped her brow dramatically to show that she'd made a save. Lawson gave her a thumbs-up and flung a noodle at her. It landed in her hair.  
  
"I trust your government is doing everything it can to discover who sent the e-mail and why?"  
  
Marianne picked the pasta from behind her ear and put it in the trash can. "We did, Mr. McGarry. FLAG, the Front of Liberated Anglo Growers, apparently sent the e-mail. They're a group of English-speaking anarchists who live in the Okanagan."  
  
"Where's that?"  
  
After a pause, Marianne replied slowly, "In British Columbia, Mr. McGarry. North of Washington state."  
  
Leo paused too, making a note of this 'Okanagan' on Belleveau's letter. Which reminded him..."And you know we don't have an ambassador just now, right?"  
  
"Yes sir. I was actually on my way to the afternoon briefing to announce Monsieur Belleveau's resignation when you phoned," she replied, getting a little used to his abrupt conversational style. "Prime Minister Reynolds is doing his best to find a suitable replacement as we speak." I apologise for that one, she said silently as her mother rolled over in her grave, That was a great big lie.  
  
"Well, don't expend too much effort on it. The President is not worried about the embassy. He's worried about FOLAX. What can you give us on this FROG group?"  
  
"Um, well, FLAG is, as I said, a group of anarchists living in B.C. They collectively own about twenty hectares of land--"  
  
"Dang it, honey, how many acres is that?" Lawson whispered in her ear with a thick Southern accent.  
  
Swatting him away, she continued, "On which they grow corn, potatoes, wheat, and other agricultural products. Generally, they're a legitimate commune. Had to give up tax-exempt status last year when it was discovered they were selling some of their produce for personal gain. They've never been essentially associated with violence, although last year two leaders of the group were jailed for spraying clothes at several department stores across the country with mild acid. We couldn't predict this."  
  
"Who can predict anything?" Leo asked tiredly. "Are their leaders still in jail?"  
  
"Yes, and they're officially not the leaders anymore. The commune, and the Front, is now run by a council, the members of which are selected based upon the size of the population--about 60 right now--and each candidate's aptitude in a test." How many joints they can smoke and still count to ten, she added to herself.  
  
Leo murmured to himself as he jotted more notes. "Can you talk to them?"  
  
"They don't speak French, Mr. McGarry. And even if they could, yes," Marianne replied, kicking Lawson as he did an interpretive dance for her side of the conversation. He fell over laughing.  
  
"What's that?" Leo asked, scribbling a note for Toby and Sam.  
  
"Nothing, Mr. McGarry. Just a little problem with the building. We're installing new lavatories." Lawson cracked up again at her inside joke.  
  
Leo hmmmed in response. "I think I have to phone Governor Lum now. Do you know who he is, Ms. Reuter?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. McGarry. I met the Governor of Washington at an Energy Board hearing in October," she said, hopping off the corner of her desk where she'd been perched. Lawson stood and tugged his suit back in order, becoming once more the unflappable assistant everyone knew and loved. Well, gossiped about.  
  
"Huh. You don't say. Well, I'm sure we'll be speaking in the future, Ms. Reuter. Communications Director, that's your title, right?"  
  
Marianne rolled her eyes and switched her glasses back to the rose-coloured lenses she preferred. "Yes, Mr. McGarry. That's my title. And if we're going to be speaking a lot to each other, please, call me Marianne."  
  
"I'll get you confused with my secretary. Her name's Margaret." At the sound of her name, afore-mentioned office staff stepped through the door.  
  
"Yes, Leo?"  
  
With a heavy sigh, he said, "Never mind. I didn't want to talk to you, I was talking about you," and waved her away.  
  
Marianne chuckled. "Whatever you want, Mr. McGarry. I'll try to have more information next time we speak, and I'll do my best to inform the White House of any developments we encounter."  
  
"I'd appreciate that. Good afternoon, Ms. Reuter."  
  
"Au revoir, Mr. McGarry."  
  
*  
  
"Smart-aleck kid."  
  
*  
  
"American."  



	3. Wednesday Afternoon, or Two Briefings an...

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Marianne said, stepping behind the table from which she made her statements.  
  
The assembled press replied, "Good afternoon, Marianne."  
  
"I'm going to make a statement on today's developments, and then I'll take questions, just like usual." An errant hand was already in the air. Lips set, she reiterated, "I will take questions after my statement." The hand sank reluctantly. "Thank you." Setting her papers out, she sat. Lawson placed a glass of water at her right hand. She smiled in thanks and took a drink, then began.   
  
"Our position on the Burnt Church protests is the same: Prime Minister Reynolds supports the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans, while understanding and sympathising with the First Nations' demands for complete autonomy on the seas. Objective moderators are on the scene, attempting to create a deal. As far as I know, there have been no changes in the gas situation, but I'm sure you'll dissuade me from that." The hand inched upward again, and she added firmly, "When I'm finished." It disappeared. "In foreign news, His Excellency Monsieur Martin Belleveau has resigned from his position as the Dominion of Canada's Ambassador to the United States. The reasons His Excellency gave were family-related and therefore confidential. That's all I know about it, guys, really. Prime Minister Reynolds has not yet named a successor, although I'm certain he has a number of well-qualified, experienced candidates in mind."  
  
She swallowed and repeated it all in French, resisting the urge to add a sarcastic 'Vive le Quebec Libre' during her statement on Belleveau's resignation.  
  
As she finished up, the hands sprouted into a forest, waving pencils at her and shouting her name. "Did I say thank you? Je parle merci?" The hands were swallowed back into the sea of suited reporters, some pencils left to hover behind ears. "There was an incident in Seattle this morning, of which many of you know, I'm sure. A FOLAX Utilities van exploded without warning in front of Seattle City Hall. The Prime Minister is concerned about this incident because FOLAX Utilities is a major investor in Canadian industry and the United States, FOLAX's home country, is our largest trading partner. Six FOLAX employees were killed in the explosion, the cause of which is not yet known. No bystanders were injured, though I am told three City Hall employees were taken to hospital for hysteria. Canada extends her deepest sympathies to the victims' families and to the Republic of the United Sates of America."  
  
As the reporters scribbled frantically, she took another drink of water before repeating the FOLAX statement in French. When she finished with that, she shuffled her papers together and said, "Thank you. Merci."  
  
The hands were suddenly there, the voices were overwhelming, but Marianne had been here before and knew vaguely what she was doing. "Oui, Monsieur Simon?"  
  
The chubby lead writer for Quebec's government-critical magazine Jute asked her a question in rapid French. She smiled and answered immediately. Then she pointed at Geraldine Conroy, from the Edmonton Standard.  
  
"Isn't it true that a left-wing extremist group called the Front of Liberated Anglo Growers has claimed the FOLAX explosion as their own work? Aren't they based in the Okanagan? Does this mean international terrorism is now a part of the Canadian political landscape?"  
  
Marianne, had she been standing, would have been hard-pressed not to stumble backwards, but she knew Geraldine was looking for a transfer to one of the big Toronto papers, and just gritted her teeth and answered. "Ms. Conroy, any claim made by any group is a matter of concern, but until it is validated by the investigatory agencies involved, no claim will be announced to the press by anybody."  
  
*  
  
"An e-mail was sent to the White House at midnight last night attributing this morning's bombing to a Canadian radical organisation called FLAG, which stands for Front of Liberated Anglo Growers. They are based in British Columbia, which, for those of you who were educated in public schools, is the Western-most province of Canada. If you want particulars on their industries, population, or agricultural products, just ask. The e-mail was apparently sent to the Canadian Prime Minister's complaints account as well. The White House was not given prompt notification of the claim, although we did receive a lovely letter of condolences from the Prime Minister--signed with a stamp, mind you. Chief of Staff Leo McGarry--"  
  
"Oh, no, you're not dragging me into that mudfest, CJ," Leo interrupted angrily. "And you're going to change that statement to more accurately reflect our attitude of respect and affection for our neighbours to the north."  
  
CJ looked offended. "Sam wrote it, not me. I don't know why you're getting mad at me."  
  
Leo swung around to glare at Sam, who whipped his hands out of his pockets and prepared to fend off blows. "It wasn't me either, it was Toby!" He pointed at the villain, who rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.  
  
"Did you do it, Toby?" Leo demanded.  
  
"Yes," he replied.  
  
"Why did you do it, Toby?" Leo asked wearily.  
  
"It's true," came the answer.  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
"Yes, it is. We were not notified of the e-mail when they got it. I have a sneaking suspicion they weren't going to notify us of the e-mail for some time. It is only by the terrorists' fortunate foresight that we got the e-mail at all." He would have gone on, but CJ shook her head at him and he took her advice, knowing that Leo was standing where he couldn't see him.  
  
"The letter wasn't signed with a stamp, Toby. It was signed with a Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with royal blue ink. Do you want to see the letter before you doubt its authenticity?" Leo went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, prepared to shove it under Toby's nose.  
  
"No, thank you, that will not be necessary. I just assumed--"  
  
"We know what you assumed, that they'd treat a letter of condolences the same way we do, but they obviously do not. Don't assume. You know what happens."  
  
Toby muttered, "An ass is made out of you _and_ me." Fortunately for him, Leo was back behind his desk, moving papers around and trying to remember what he wanted to talk about next.  
  
"Re-write the statement," he announced, looking up. "Have it ready in ten minutes."  
  
"Okay," Toby replied, getting up and heading for the door.  
  
"Sam, re-write the statement." Surprised, Toby and Sam looked at each other, then at Leo.  
  
"What?" they asked in unison.  
  
"Sam, re-write the statement. That's what I said. Are you two going deaf? Sam. Re-write the statement. You now have nine minutes." Leo sat down and crossed his arms as Sam dashed out of the room.  
  
"What was that for?" Toby demanded in his subdued way, sitting again.  
  
"It was a stupid statement. I asked Sam to re-write it. That's what we have two writers for."  
  
Momentarily, Sam returned, standing in the door for a second before Leo noticed him. "What do you want? You're supposed to be writing."  
  
"I need a copy of the statement," he said. CJ passed him hers and he ran out again.  
  
"Eight minutes!" Leo called after him.  
  
*  
  
  



	4. The Bomb, or Not the Bomb

At six o'clock, Marianne decided she was going home. She zipped up her garment bag, stuffed her slippers in her secret drawer and locked her desk up securely. Sure, it wasn't the Watergate, but Arthur was an extremely nosey, suspicious, and jealous man. Oh, yeah, sure, you're clandestinely writing speeches for the Alliance, she said to herself with a roll of her eyes.  
  
Lawson was sitting at his desk when she left her office, the light off but the door open for the cleaning lady's rounds at ten. "Burning the fat?" she asked, leaning into his doorway.  
  
"Pondering the enigma of FLAG and FOLAX," he relied, setting down the nail file he'd been using to pry open a can of ready-to-serve soup. Marianne, sensing this was going to be a conversation, hung her bag on his doorknob and entered. "Why. And why again."  
  
"And yet more whys," she finished the line from their sophomore PoliSci instructor and took the can from him. "Isn't your hotplate broken?"  
  
He took the can back. "No. I fixed it."  
  
Marianne brandished the can opener on her key chain and Lawson relented. As she cut the lid open, she asked, "You fixed it? Wow. Where are you hiding your mechanical prowess and why can't you find it when my car is put-putting?"  
  
"Because I don't do cars," he replied, taking a large bowl and a half-empty, half-stale package of crackers from his desk, "and because you need a new transmission. I keep telling you, but you never listen."  
  
Giggling, Marianne poured the soup over his crackers and threw the empty can in the trash across the room. "Three points. When I get a raise, I'll buy a new car."  
  
"Honey, you have to get elected to get a raise. How many times must I repeat that chestnut?" he asked, sliding the bowl onto his hotplate and switching it on.  
  
She shrugged. "It's funny. I like hearing that one."  
  
Standing over the hotplate, he stirred the lumpy soup with a chopstick. "Do you want to talk about your meeting?"  
  
"No," she said. "I don't. I hate him. I hate him. He told me to withhold evidence! He said it would be better that way. He's entirely irresponsible. My father's incontinent Scottie dog would make a better Prime Minister."  
  
Nodding, Lawson encouraged her with a hmmming noise.  
  
"You sound like my ex-therapist. He's more concerned with getting Belleveau, that coward, into the Senate, than he is with averting an international incident. Well, it's already an international incident, but really. I mean, please. I could use a little help from the powers above if I'm going to make this not a problem." She sat in Lawson's rotating desk chair and spun about a few times. That always made the world seem brighter.  
  
"Is that what he told you to do?" Lawson asked, aghast.  
  
Closing her eyes to keep the dizziness, Marianne nodded. "He called before I unplugged my phone...that's why I unplugged my phone, actually. He said to do what I usually do."  
  
"Make it not a problem. That bastard," he murmured.  
  
"Yeah, well, I pay you, and I promised to serve him, so we're stuck," she said, shrugging. Lawson returned from the hotplate with his soup and she vacated the chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Eyeing her with concern, he asked, "Will you be okay?"  
  
"Yeah. He's been playing me since I was twenty-two. I don't think I could do my job without him being an idiotic asshole for me to tip-toe around." She took her garment bag and stepped into the hall. "I'll phone you if I do something stupid. Oh, hey, get me a plane ticket to Vancouver for tomorrow afternoon. And a car. I'm going to FLAG."  
  
Lawson nodded disbelievingly. "Close the door. The cleaning lady gives me the creeps. See you tomorrow. Love you."  
  
Marianne signed the same back at him and closed the door securely.  
  
*  
  
No one had left the West Wing yet. Everyone was working on something or other. Donna, for example, was working on a crossword puzzle.  
  
"What's a four-letter word for work?" she called across the hallway at Josh.  
  
He looked up from what he had been working on and narrowed his eyes at her. "What?"  
  
"That's not a synonym for work. Big help you are." Pouting, she turned her chair away from the door.  
  
Josh was still staring at the back of her head in bewilderment when Sam strode down the hall between them, glancing into Josh's office as he did so. A second later, he came back, standing in the doorway. "What are you doing?"  
  
Shaking his head, Josh returned from the lands of thought, and replied, "Trying to remember what I was doing before Donna interrupted me."  
  
"Interrupted you for what?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Sam paused, then turned to leave. "Oh, wait--"  
  
"You know, I'm not the one walking down the hall."  
  
Entering the office, he replied, "Very funny. I got a note from Leo about Seattle."  
  
"What?" Josh asked, massaging the bridge of his nose.  
  
"The claim is from some anarchists living in a commune in British Columbia. Apparently they're not known for violence, although there was an incident a few years ago. You want to see the note?" Sam said, holding the scrap of paper out.  
  
"No. I'll ask him later. Did he get all that from the FBI?"  
  
Putting the note back in his pocket, Sam shook his head. "From the Communications Director."  
  
"Toby?"  
  
"The Canadian one. Reuter, I think the name is, but Leo's handwriting..."  
  
*  
  
Leo, on the other hand, was once more on the phone with Gordon Lum. "A pipe bomb?"  
  
"Well, three, actually," the Governor qualified.  
  
"Three pipe bombs blew up a van? On a timer?" he asked, adding the number three before 'pipe bomb' on Belleveau's letter, which had become his unofficial Seattle incident note sheet.  
  
Some whispering could be heard on the line. "A remote control device, Mr. McGarry."  
  
While writing 'remote,' Leo realised something. "You can't remotely detonate a pipe bomb in Seattle from Canada, can you?"  
  
After a pause, Lum replied, "No. From the fragments, the technicians said approximately two miles."  
  
"Canada is a hell of a lot farther away then that."  
  
"Yes, it is, Mr. McGarry."  
  
*  
  
To spite Lawson, Marianne arrived at work the next morning with her laptop computer, cellular phone, and a change of clothes. "I'm going to FLAG," she announced to the Communications floor in general as she entered. Everyone nodded and went back to work. "I am!" she insisted.  
  
"Oh, did you really want that ticket?" Lawson asked, on his way from the photocopier room to his office.  
  
"No, Douglas. I didn't. I wanted the exact opposite of having a ticket to Vancouver, and that's why I asked for one. For Pete's sake."  
  
"Well, then, you're not disappointed in me, are you? Everybody's happy." He led her down the hallway and into her office, where she noted that the cleaning lady had not emptied her trashcan.  
  
Marianne brandished her bags as Lawson turned around to face her. "I'm going to FLAG."  
  
"You've got a meeting."  
  
After a second of thought, she replied, "No. I have not got a meeting. I have no meeting today. You're not the only person who reads my datebook, you know."  
  
He nodded and took her bag. "That's what you think."  
  
Trying to snatch it back, Marianne snapped, "It is! Give me my bag! I have a plane to catch!"  
  
"You're not taking this suit," he said, hanging the garment bag behind her door.  
  
"Why?!"  
  
"It's not natural fibres. I picked you up a cotton suit on my way in this morning." He lifted a box from the rack beside her door and opened it, revealing a smart black pinstriped suit with a light blue satin shirt. "It's you."  
  
"They are not going to analyse the content of my clothing material. You left last night?" she asked incredulously.  
  
Lawson ignored the jab. After putting the box on her desk, he wagged a finger. "Now, really, you don't want to go in there facing the possibility unprepared, do you?"  
  
"Do I have a ticket or not?"  
  
Relenting, Lawson shrugged. "It's in the box. So is your car rental validation number. Call me when you get there."  
  
Grabbing the box, she headed out. "I will."  
  
*  
  
The trip and drive were uneventful, although Marianne was having a little trouble adjusting to the three-hour time difference. She was still acclimating to the two-hour difference between Saskatchewan and Ottawa, so going back the other direction an hour didn't help.  
  
As she pulled up to the FLAG driveway, in the middle of nowhere, she checked her watch. Then she swore at herself, remembering the time change. She drove on, for nearly a kilometre, to the five or six houses at the end of the driveway. All around were bare, snow-covered fields. She got out of the car and slammed the door, hoping it didn't freeze shut and praying the thing would turn over when she came back out. Her breath hung before her in a thick cloud as she tucked her chin into the collar of her heavy winter jacket, trudging toward a doorway in what appeared to be the main building. A large sign over the door read "Pax Fiat, Lux Fiat" and "FLAG Forever!"  
  
The door, beside which was a rack filled with frost-covered bicycles, was unlocked. Entering, she stood in a shabby, dark hallway. A minute or two passed and Marianne bcame tempted to think this place was abandoned, when suddenly a grubby man in at least three jackets emerged from a doorway.  
  
"Can I help you?" he asked gruffly. His breath trailed out in a thin wisp.  
  
After clearing her throat, she replied assertively, not showing her fear. "I hope so. I'm Marianne Reuter, Communications Director for the Prime Minister's Office. I'd like to speak to someone who's a member of FLAG, the Front of Liberated Anglo Growers."  
  
The man nodded, shuffling his feet in their thick, heavy boots. "I'm Josiah. I'm a member of the council that runs our commune. I'll talk to you. It's just my wife and me here right now. Everyone else is at a protest in Prince George. I guess you could say I'm holding the fort," he said with a grin, his teeth surprisingly white. "This way to the conference room." He led her down a hallway, the walls of which were plastered with musical posters and protest banners, to a cozily-appointed yet professional room in the back of the building.  
  
"Nice," Marianne commented.  
  
Josiah smiled at her and gestured to a seat. "My wife decorated herself. We try to allow our members to develop their individual talents. She's great with a fabric swatch." He returned to the door and called, "Louise!"  
  
A moment later, a slim woman with long red hair came into the room. She smiled openly at Marianne. "Hi. I thought I heard somebody outside, but I thought it was just Josiah coming from the grow shed."  
  
"Hello."  
  
Sliding Louise's chair out for her, Josiah introduced them. "This is Ms. Reuter from the Prime Minister's Office."  
  
Louise nodded. "What do you need to talk to us about?" she asked, taking Josiah's hand as he sat beside her.  
  
"Well," Marianne began, pulling the folder Arthur had given her from her attache, "There was a bombing in Seattle yesterday. I assume you've heard?"  
  
Louise and Josiah gasped. "What happened? Was anybody hurt? We hadn't, we don't have television, radio, or phone out here."  
  
"Oh. A FOLAX Utilities van was blown up outside Seattle City Hall. Six people were killed," she replied, beginning to be confused.  
  
Josiah covered his eyes and she heard him whispering. Louise patted his back and said to Marianne, "Just a short prayer for the dead. He's an Enlightist. Normally, our members don't practise anything, but, well, we were a package deal and everyone just loves him now."  
  
Remembering the test for council membership, Marianne imagined they would. When Josiah uncovered his eyes, she continued, sliding the folder across the table at them. "That's about everything relevant to the situation, and an ambassadorial resignation."  
  
Minutes passed as Louise and Josiah pored over the documents, not cringing away from the photos as Marianne had. They came to the e-mail and stopped, looking up at her with eyes filled with horror.  
  
Josiah jumped up, slapping the papers on the table. "We didn't do it!" he shouted at her.  
  
Surprised, Marianne said, "I never said you did."  
  
Shaking her head, face closed against her, Louise countered, "This paper is a lie. We don't use violence."  
  
"Anymore," Marianne added. There was silence for a moment, Josiah standing with his back almost to the table, Louise with her thin arms crossed over her chest.  
  
"That was a mistake. They put our names on an act none of us would have condoned. We never used violence, just them," Josiah insisted, putting his hands on the clapboard wall. "We didn't blow anybody up. It wasn't us."  
  
Marianne took off her clear-lensed glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose. "We're trying to figure out where the sending account is located. Until then, FLAG is considered by many the prime suspect."  
  
Louise slammed a fist on the table. "This isn't fair! Fucking government. This is why we don't vote, goddammit. I wish we could phone Joanie and the others in Prince George."  
  
Her hand fell away from her face and she slowly put her glasses back on, thinking very quickly. "You don't have a phone."  
  
"No. I told you that!" Josiah fumed, coming away from the wall.  
  
"You don't have a phone line. Or a cable line, since you don't have a television either." She grabbed a piece of paper from the folder and the pen from her suit pocket and started writing.  
  
"No. What?" Louise asked, leaning forward.  
  
"You don't have electricity, and that's why it's so bloody cold in here," Marianne continued. "You don't even have a computer, do you?"  
  
Grinning now, Josiah clapped his hands. "No!" Louise jumped up and twirled around.  
  
"So you couldn't have sent the e-mail, could you?"  
  
Hugging each other fiercely, Louise and Josiah shouted, "No!"  
  
*  
  
"What?"  
  
The agent cleared his throat. "We found the detonation device, Mr. McGarry. In a hotel in Seattle, within viewing range of the explosion."  
  
"Thank you." Leo pressed the cut-off button on his phone, then dialled Marianne's office.  
  
"Marianne Reuter's office, Lawson Douglas speaking. How may I help you?" Lawson was re-organising Marianne's desk for her, the phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder.  
  
"Can I speak to Ms. Reuter, please?"  
  
Brushing the dust from a Loverboy album, Lawson replied, "I'm afraid she's out of the office, Mr. McGarry."  
  
Not questioning how Lawson knew his voice already, Leo said, "Does she have a cellular?"  
  
"Yes, sir, just a moment and I'll give you the number." He rummaged in his pocket for the laminated card with all of Marianne's numbers on it. The phone beeped. "Excuse me, Mr. McGarry, the other line is ringing. I'll put you on hold."  
  
"No, actually--" but Leo was on hold. He listened to the muzak rendition of the Canadian national anthem silently, fuming.  
  
"Marianne Reuter's office, Lawson Douglas spea--"  
  
"Lawson! It's me. They didn't do it." Marianne was out of breath, running down the boarding tunnel for her plane.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm late for my flight," she replied, shifting her shoulder bag and laptop in mid-stride. "They didn't do it."  
  
"Late? You've only been late twice in your life: your meeting yesterday and your polka-dot when you were nineteen." Lawson leaned back in Marianne's chair and put his feet on her desk, admiring the leopard-print fuzzy slippers he'd found in a hidden drawer.  
  
"I really regret getting drunk and telling you that," Marianne rasped, rounding another corner. Why are these damn things so long? she moaned inwardly.  
  
"It was election night. You thought your career was over. I don't blame you. It was funny."  
  
"They didn't do it, Lawson. FLAG is innocent."  
  
"You're kidding?" Lawson drawled, not bothering to sound surprised.  
  
"You knew that already, damn you. I want some answers when I get back," Marianne growled, stopping at the door to the plane. A flight attendant gestured for her to get off the phone before she got on the plane. She nodded, leaning over to catch her breath.  
  
"A secretary never reveals his secrets," Lawson replied. "Leo McGarry is on hold. What should I tell him?"  
  
Handing over her boarding pass, Marianne replied, "That not all of us can fly Air Force One and I'll call him in three hours."  



End file.
